Margaery

She had never been prone to nightmares. It was Loras who ran to their mother in the dead of night, and Garlan who had been haunted by his first execution, hiding in the library so they would not know he refused to sleep until pushed to the point of utter exhaustion. But she had learned early in life that a young woman had far more to fear in the waking world than anything her imagination could conjure in sleep. Dreams were blissful ignorance, the only ones she could afford.

Yet as of late, Margaery had been plagued. She slept poorly, tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning, only to be met by the singing of steel and screams when her eyes finally closed. The images were fleeting, frantic, and gripped her with a terror she had not known in her lifetime. When she awoke, her skin burned with a thousand cuts and the heat of an unquenchable fire. In her mind's eye, Cersei watched her from the Iron Throne, smug even as the ancient swords cut her to ribbons.

That morning, she woke her chambermaid and seared the images away with the blazing heat of her hearth, but in the silence of the keep, the roars of its flames were like lions.

She watched the fire from the sofa, her knees neatly tucked under her chin, feeling less like a queen and more a doll for the boy they called king. Her family had fought a war for two different kings, and she had played her part for three marriages, yet she felt no closer to truly achieving her dream than when she was a silly maiden running through the hedgerows in Highgarden.

Margaery wondered what might have happened had Joffrey lived, and further still, if Renly had. What would the Seven Kingdoms look like if the might of the Reach and the Stormlands had been given the chance to face their destiny? But that was the problem: their destiny was to flounder and fail, and they had done just that. And then the lions came calling...

A log cracked, spitting embers into the darkness. It drew Margaery out of her foolish musing, and she realized that the keep was not as quiet as she once believed. Footsteps were shuffling out in the halls, clearly in an attempt to muffle the sound, but armor was not made for keeping secrets. Something was happening.

Wrapping a robe about her, Margaery made for the entryway. She pressed against the door, straining to hear anything beyond her room. Another set of footsteps hurried past, but no words were spoken. She watched the light of a torch pass below the gap and stepped back as if it would burn. It made her feel foolish. She was the queen, and she needed to act the part.

Ser Balon Swann stood vigilant before her chambers, dark eyes scanning the area. She noticed his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

"What is happening?" she asked, squinting in the darkness. A lone servant sprinted on the other side of the chamber, their footfalls silent as they disappeared from sight. It alarmed her more than the guards, and she did not know why.

"I do not know, Your Grace. No one has told me, but you should remain in your chambers. I do not believe it is safe."

Loras would never leave me alone if that were true.

"No," Margaery replied firmly, stepping fully into the hall. "We go to the king."

"Your Grace, I do not think-"

She leveled a stare on the knight, watching as his resistance crumbled before her. "We go to the king."

Tommen's chambers were not far from hers, yet the brief walk felt like a grueling march. As her eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, Margaery began to spy details she had not seen before. There were guards lining the halls, both Lannister and Tyrell, silently watching every move. Servants still dressed in their nightclothes were clustered in corners, whispering and pointing. A trail of blood marred the marbled floors and drove Ser Balon to unsheathe his sword.

Half a dozen Lannister soldiers stood guard outside of Tommen's chambers, still as statues and just as stoic. Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight. Not again. Not another king.

"Let me in," she commanded as they approached, but the guards pushed closer together, barring her entry. "The queen wishes to see the king. Let. Me. In."

Behind them, the door opened, pouring light into the hall. Loras looked worse for wear, his hair unkempt, his eyes sunken and dark. His armor and cloak were missing. He'd been roused from slumber, but she had not.

"Let the queen pass. Lord Tywin's orders."

The soldiers parted without word, allowing Margaery to storm past her brother and toward Tommen's room. She did not care who else was in the antechamber; she needed to see the king for herself.

Though his door was open, exposing him to the commotion outside, Tommen was fast asleep, curled up with two of his cats. Ser Boros Blount stood not three feet away from the bed, watching over the little king with his sword in hand.

Margaery knelt before his bed and allowed herself a moment of weakness. She had not lost him. There was still hope.

When she left the room, she found Tywin Lannister speaking with her brother and Ser Balon. Lord Varys lingered behind them, his face stern and indecipherable. Seated round the hearth was her father, her uncle, and Grand Maester Pycelle. It was nearly the entire council, all watching her with unreadable eyes and deep-set frowns.

"Margaery, I-" Her father said as he stood, holding out his hands as a sympathetic gesture, but she pushed past him. He was not the one she wanted answers from; he was not the one in power. It was the man standing at her husband's desk, lording over it like the king he was.

"What is happening?" she asked, her voice a low hiss. Her brother at least looked shamed, but she never expected an ounce of emotion from Tywin. He did not even meet her gaze.

"Ser Loras, I need you to find ten men that you trust beyond a shred of a doubt and bring them to my chambers. Ser Balon, wake the others and bring them here at once." Tywin turned to the Spider. "Lord Varys, you will root out their spies. I do not care how you dispose of them, so long as they are dealt with."

All three bowed their heads and quickly fled the room. That was when Tywin chose to look at her, and for the first time, she saw him for the old man that he was. His eyes were dull and tired, and his clothing fit him poorly, the state of a man roused from slumber and rushed into battle. The pin for his station was nowhere to be found. His left hand trembled slightly, but he balled it into a fist to hide the fact.

Tywin Lannister had been caught off guard, and they were certain to pay for it.

"I will speak with the queen alone," he said, gaze never leaving hers. She could hear the shuffle of the others leaving the room. Even her father did not speak up.

When the door closed again, Tywin slumped in Tommen's chair and sighed. It was such a human gesture from the Old Lion, and it terrified her.

"Dorne has been attacked. Prince Doran is dead, and Princess Myrcella is missing." Margaery dropped into the chair beside her and felt her blood turn cold. "The entire kingdom points the finger at us and calls for war."

"The blood in the halls?"

"We attempted to confine Nymeria Sand, but she received word before us. She killed three guards before fleeing into the tunnels below the keep."

That was why Ser Boros watched over Tommen in his room. There were hidden entrances all across the Red Keep, and any one of them could bring an enraged Dornishwoman into contact with the source of that rage. Even now, the Sand Snake could be listening to their conversation, hidden away in a space known only to her. It made Margaery's skin crawl.

"So, what happens now?" she asked quietly, already knowing the answer. Every Tyrell knew well the animosity between the Reach and Dorne. They all carried a hatred for the wretched place, even if they hid it well. The marches were continually soaked with the blood of both sides, and now they would be flooded. The Lannisters could rest easy knowing her family lay between their home and their enemy, but she would never know sleep again.

"Now, we will go to war," Tywin started, grabbing for paper and an inkwell. She'd never seen Joffrey write. What a strange thing to think on. "Winter is fast approaching and the people are on edge. I will not have them panicking as they did under Joffrey. While the rest of the council sees to Dorne, you will answer petitioners and keep the city firmly under control. You did well enough after the Blackwater. I expect the same here."

Tywin's gaze snapped to her, hard as stone. "You are the queen."

She was a concession granted by the impending bloodshed of her father's armies, but Margaery knew better than to voice that thought.

"As the queen, I would like to know something," Margaery said slowly, matching his unrelenting gaze. There would be no charming the Hand. He was made of sterner stuff that would prefer to shatter rather than bend, and there were few that bore the strength to accomplish such a task. Straightforward was her only approach. "Is the princess truly missing?"

He did not speak. Tywin Lannister neither flinched nor presented any change that suggested he was not made of solid stone, and in that she knew was her answer. He would have questioned her foolishness if Myrcella had simply been taken away from Dorne, on his order or another's, but here he could say nothing, for he knew nothing.

A commotion outside brought their silent conversation to a swift end. Cersei's shouts easily penetrated the door, shrill obscenities and commands that the guards were sworn to not obey. Tywin stood immediately and stormed to the door, Margaery following in his wake. He threw it open to the image of a woman wild with rage and despair.

"You would keep me from my son!" Cersei wailed, attempting to enter, but the guards had drawn their swords and held them aloft to block her path. "You would let this whore in, but not his mother!"

"I would keep you from the king," Tywin said soundly, voice unwavering. His words cut like daggers, so deeply even Margaery could feel the pain. "You will not speak to him again. You will not see him again. Should he ask for you, he shall receive Margaery instead. He will forget your face, your voice, and you will pray to the Seven he forgets what you have inflicted upon his reign."

"I have given you everything! You will not take him from me!"

"Just as Dorne should not take Myrcella, or so you have spat ever since she left with them. What have you done with her? Where is she?"

"I-" Cersei froze, her eyes widening in frightening realization. "I don't know. I...Lord Baelish. You must ask him."

"Then you admit to conspiring to abduct the princess and undermine our relationship with the Dornish."

"I have done no such thing! You cannot accuse me of this!"

"I can, and I do," Tywin replied, his voice low. Margaery could almost hear the disappointment. "Guards, escort my daughter back to her chambers. She is to be watched day and night, and under no circumstances is she to be released."

"I will not allow it! Tommen will not stand for it!" Cersei cried, shoving a soldier who dared stand too close. "I am the queen!"

Tywin walked forward slowly. "All of Dorne calls for your head. Consider yourself fortunate that I have chosen to take your freedom instead."

Cersei's face contorted with unmatched fury, but for all its fire, there was no heat. The queen mother collapsed in the hallway, sobbing, her voice silenced. In that moment, Margaery knew she stood victorious, but she did not relish it.

. . .

When Loras returned, Margaery had him escort her to the throne room. Though the morning was still dark, the keep was beginning to stir with life. News traveled fast in the Red Keep, bad news faster still. There would not be a soul unaware of their current predicament once the sun rose.

She could not recall the gallery being so large, but the farther Margaery walked, the more the throne appeared to slip away. She nearly tripped upon the steps of the dais, her eyes were so fixated upon her goal. It began to take on a life of its own under her scrutiny, no longer just some thing that occupied the space. It bled and screamed and demanded of her answers that she did not possess, but it would not defeat her.

Margaery walked up the steps, staring long and hard at the swords of old, before seating herself upon the throne. She gazed across the room, imagining faces and fire, as her hands tightly wrapped around the worn hilts at her side. Loras appeared beside her, facing away from the gallery, his hand upon her shoulder.

She tried to smile. "I am the queen."

. . .

Sansa

The days were growing colder. A near constant wail coursed through the Eyrie as the winds whipped across the mountains, bringing snow through every exposed crevice. Servants were often drying the floors and the walls, and sweeping out what snow hadn't melted. Robert had been more or less barred from leaving his room by Lysa, claiming she feared for his safety from the bitter cold, though Sansa suspected it was a means of limiting her access to her cousin.

The household was meant to have left for the Gates of the Moon already, preferably when the other lords and ladies retreated, but Littlefinger had put a stop to it. So, they waited, provisioned for the time being, but everyone had noticed the soups becoming thinner, the meat less tender. The last supplies sent their way had been swept off the mountainside, along with two of Mya's loyal mules.

"How long do you plan on hiding up here?" Sansa asked one morning after they'd broken their fast.

Arya had inhaled her helping and grabbed a handful of bacon - presumably for Gendry - before darting out of the hall. Lysa had spent the better part of it simply glaring at her. It was a childish move that Sansa refused to acknowledge, keeping her gaze studiously locked on her food or Littlefinger. She imagined that did not help her aunt's disposition, and it entertained her greatly. The woman had left in a huff when her little mind game failed, and her new husband hardly noticed.

"I don't imagine the lords are going to take your head now," she continued, breaking a quail egg open with her knife. "Although if they were, I'd think you'd find it preferable to starving."

"I suppose that's true," Littlefinger replied, mouth curved into his signature smirk. "But regardless, death is death, and I've grown very fond of living."

"Harrold Hardyng will come through. You needn't worry."

"I wouldn't be where I am today if I stopped worrying when I was told to," Littlefinger said, leaning forward in his seat. Even in the empty halls of the Eyrie where every breath echoed, his quiet voice would not carry beyond the table. "What makes you think the upstart squire will listen? I have not received word from Lady Waynwood of his outpouring of affection for you, so I presume marriage was not part of your extensive conversation with him."

Now it was her turn to smirk. "You were watching."

Had she not already suspected his untoward motivation for keeping her within reach, the brief but obvious flicker of jealousy in his eyes would have sealed it. Proposing that she seduce a young man for his favor was one thing. To see her thoroughly enjoying the process was quite another.

Perhaps she ought to have kissed him after all.

"Of course I was. I keep a close eye on all my investments," Littlefinger countered. She let the bold lie go unchallenged, if only because it amused her. "Now would you do me the honor of regaling me with your conquest or should I begin to blindly guess as to why a man would do something for nothing?"

Sansa sighed, intently watching the man across from her. It was strange how easy it was to look at him now. He was the man who was partly responsible for her father's death, yet when she looked at him, she no longer felt the rage or despair that had plagued her since that fateful day. She supposed that was how he managed to survive for so long. Eventually, everyone simply grew used to his presence, whether they wished to or not.

"You're a man of numbers, Petyr. In order to obtain what you want, it needs to be traded for something of value. For something to have value, it needs to be measurable. And that has served you well, but there is one thing you've failed to take into account."

"And what might that be?"

"That I am a woman, and all it takes to get a man to do something is the notion that I am unimpressed by him. As I recall, you bear a scar that proves my point rather well." She grinned as Littlefinger's ever-present smug facade wavered, while his hand drifted to the wretched mark her uncle had left upon him. "Regardless, Harrold is desperate to prove himself capable. I believe being an 'upstart' squire has something to do with it. Now that he has a captive audience, he'll do whatever you need him to, to include going against his best interests."

He was studying her. She could tell from the slight squint of his eyes. Littlefinger was looking for a lie.

"I admit, I had my doubts," he conceded eventually, standing from the table. He crossed to the other side and offered his arm. "It is a relief to have an ally in this endeavor who is equally unwilling to be cornered."

Sansa allowed him to escort her through the quiet halls of the Eyrie. She scarcely saw a servant or guard, as if they'd melted into the walls and ceased to exist. It made her feel isolated in his company, yet also watched. But this was not the Red Keep, and there weren't hidden doors and passageways ready to whisk her off into the unknown.

"And what endeavor is that?" she asked as they entered his solar. She ignored the various books that had been thrown to the ground. The entire keep had heard what that was about. "Do you plan on occupying Harrenhal after all?"

Littlefinger actually snorted, sitting at his desk while she remained standing. Aside from the recent victims of Lysa's desires, the room was pristine. There wasn't a book out of place nor a mote of dust to be seen. It was the appearance of an incredibly organized man, but she doubted he'd ever opened a fraction of the books within. Image was everything, even an obviously false one.

"I've no intention of stepping foot within those walls. I don't dally with superstition, but even I would be remiss to tempt fate with that corpse of a castle."

"Then what is your plan?"

He smirked, pulling a letter out from his desk. "For now, simply to watch. I've played my part, now it is time for the pawns to play theirs."

Sansa gingerly took the parchment, noting the unmarked seal. She read the words slowly, methodically, looking for any clues beyond the madness. If her hands began to shake, she did not notice.

The Water Gardens had been her refuge, a place of beauty and tranquility. Now like Winterfell, it was nothing but charred remains and broken memories. They thought themselves safe, and for that, Littlefinger had martyred them to his cause.

Oberyn will kill them all.

"We will begin preparation for the descent tomorrow," Littlefinger spoke again, ignoring her internal conflict. Or perhaps he was reveling in it. She did not dare look at him. "And the banners will need to be called. I intend to make certain the Vale's position on this terrible tragedy."

He had told her to make a point. Whatever she believed she could accomplish, it paled next to his expertise. She had harmed the pride of a boy, and he had toppled the realm into chaos.

Sansa did not reply to him. She no longer acknowledged his presence, leaving the room with scarcely a sound. Clutching the letter in her hands, she wandered the Eyrie in a fog, turning this way and that, uncertain of her destination until she'd fled the safety of the walls entirely. On a balcony in the bitter cold, she wept, warm tears stinging her chilled skin. It was the only place she thought no one would hear her cries.

And when her sobs subsided, when the cold had chased away all feelings of warmth, Sansa knew that Arya had been right.

One way or another, they would have to kill him.

. . .

Myra

She'd barely interacted with Roslin that terrible night. For the most part, the young woman had been a distant figure to observe as her uncle turned into a besotted little boy beside her. During a brief respite from the eligible Frey suitors, Myra had approached the lord's table, offering congratulations and other warm courtesies. Roslin had been wide-eyed and timid, but at the time, she had blamed it on her nerves and the impending bedding. The truth of the matter, of course, had been far worse.

Myra had not known how she would react to seeing Roslin. She had forgiven Olyvar and Perwyn, as they'd been unaware and sent away for their loyalty to Robb, but their sister had known. Her fault it may not have been, but her knowledge had still damned them. But when her uncle's wife had fallen to her knees before her, begging forgiveness through a cascade of tears, Myra's heart had melted, and the foolish notions of blame were quickly cast aside. She was as much a victim as the others. Who was she to betray her family or risk harm at their hands? Not all children could rest comfortably with the belief that they were truly loved.

She had helped the young woman to her feet and sat her by the window in her chambers, and there they remained. The sun was starting to set, and clouds gathered in the west, a brewing storm. They had spoken of this and that, nothing so grave. It was a testing of the waters, a growing understanding between two women whose lives were so very different from what they had ever imagined.

Myra watched as Roslin cradled her stomach, the swell of the child growing within fitting neatly in her hands. Her uncle's son or daughter. Her little cousin. It was a strange idea after everything.

"How long have you known?" Roslin asked quietly. When Myra did not respond, a knowing smile grew on her face. "You've been staring for the better part of the day. I can see it in your eyes."

Caught, Myra cast her gaze downward, smiling as she took in the folds of her dress. She did not believe there was anything to be seen, but Jaime insisted he could tell. No one knew her body better than him, after all. She'd called him a git and he hadn't disagreed.

"Not long," she admitted, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the smile from getting larger. It was not all happiness, of course. She had a growing aversion to most smells wafting from the kitchens, and a tendency to lose a meal should the sensation overwhelm her, but it could never drown the joy. Not when Jaime grinned whenever he looked at her, not when she could finally think of the future as something certain and not stained with darkness and blood. "There's been much to occupy my thoughts as of late. It was only when I knew a moment's peace that I realized."

Roslin's smile dipped slightly. "I wish I had the same experience. At the first sign, my brothers had me thoroughly examined by three different maesters. They were not kind nor were they gentle. All of my household was eager to learn if I carried House Tully's heir."

In an instant, Roslin became a different person. She appeared a child to Myra, small and so very scared. Her eyes lined with tears and her shoulders began to shake, and she gripped her belly tightly, as if someone were capable of tearing it away.

"I didn't know what they would do to me if I lost it. What if they thought I did it on purpose? I couldn't sleep; I could barely eat," Roslin detailed, her voice a panicked whisper. "And then, I thought it would be a kindness. They would kill Lord Edmure for this child, and I could not stand the thought. He was good to me; he would not touch me while I wept. He thought me afraid of him. I've never known anyone of his like, and I did not wish to betray him to his death by having his child. But who wishes for their child to die? I am a wretched little monster and I-"

Myra cut off her dangerous tirade with an embrace, holding the young woman as she sobbed. She stroked her hair gently, soothed her with kind words, and prayed to whatever gods would listen that they showed no mercy upon those who tortured her. The cruelty of the Freys knew no bounds.

She gently pulled away from Roslin, cupping her face between her hands. "You are safe here. No one will harm you or your child; no one will harm Edmure. I swear by the old gods and the new, you are free of them."

Her dark eyes were searching for a lie, frightened and unsteady as they were. Then a brief flash of joy crossed them before she broke down in tears again, her body collapsing back into Myra's arms as relief and weariness overwhelmed her. She held her as the sun dipped below the horizon, waving off any servants who came by. The world outside could wait, if only for a few moments more.

"Will he ever come to me?" Roslin asked eventually.

"He will," Myra assured her. "He may need some encouragement, but he will come."

Once more, the door to her chambers opened, but it was Olyvar's wide-eyed face that greeted her. He looked pale, even in the warm light of the fire. She hated how she knew something was wrong just by one simple glance.

"What is it, Olyvar?" she asked, feeling Roslin sit up at the mention of her brother. The young woman attempted to wipe her tears and look presentable.

"Ser Kevan requests your presence, my lady," Olyvar replied, stepping forward. He wore Lannister colors now, and looked far more suited to them. "He is in Lord Jaime's solar."

"And is Jaime there?"

"He is not."

Myra attempted to swallow, but felt her throat constricting. It was happening again, wasn't it? The ugliness of the world was about to rear its head and destroy her life once more.

"I will go alone," she said eventually, hoping her facade was calm and they could not hear the screaming of her heart. Myra removed herself from Roslin's embrace, and went to stand beside Olyvar. "Stay with your sister. Let her know she is loved."

The walk to Jaime's solar should not have been a long one, but Myra's gait was purposely slow. She needed to delay her arrival, to gather her courage and her strength; she needed to pretend for one last minute that everything was okay.

Ser Kevan was standing by the fireplace when she entered, his back to her. His shoulders were hunched, and she imagined there was a sudden great weight placed upon them.

"There is a letter on the desk," his voice called to her, sounding far older than his years. "I cannot repeat what is written."

Myra wandered to the great oaken desk that occupied the center of the room, and to the single letter that rested on top. She gently handled the parchment, afraid it might burn her. Once she read the contents, she tossed it away as though it had.

Dizzy and overwhelmed, she collapsed into the nearby chair. Her hand covered her mouth and she bit her tongue to keep the wail at bay, but her body heaved and her eyes stung. She breathed heavily and deep, and her free hand dug into the wood of the armrest.

Ser Kevan wandered into her vision then, a ghost of the man she had come to know. The vile words had aged him. Perhaps they had done the same to her.

"You must be the one to tell him."

Myra shook her head. "You cannot ask that of me."

"Yet I must. You are the only one who can do this. Myrcella, she..." his voice trailed off and a deep despair took hold of him. When he regained his composure and met her gaze, Myra could see that he knew the truth. "She meant the world to him."

She knew he was right, but could not bring herself to admit it. Instead, she stood, wavering until Kevan grabbed her arm. They stared at one another for a long time, both lost in a suddenly unrecognizable world. She'd wondered how he could possibly be related to Tywin, but in the darkness of the room, his somber gaze quietly reminded her of the man.

. . .

Myra could not recall leaving the room. She had been standing with Kevan, and in the next moment, she was behind Jaime in the great hall. Her husband had been avoiding the place since they'd arrived, but now he stood before the high seat, contemplative. It was made of the same rock as the keep, carved from the very stone they stood upon with lion heads upon the arms, rubied eyes staring down all who entered.

The great hall of Casterly Rock was an immense room, made to seat a thousand she had been told. It could swallow Winterfell's with ease, and still leave room to breathe. She had marveled at the size when she first spied it, but even its walls were suffocating now.

"We'll have to get a chair for you," Jaime said, glancing at her briefly. He'd yet to notice anything was amiss. "Something loud and extravagant. I'd prefer to draw everyone's eyes away from me."

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come out. Gods, how could she tell him?

At her silence, Jaime turned to face her properly, the impish grin on his face instantly fading at the sight of her. He was immediately at her side, holding her gently, his eyes wild with concern.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Lightly, his hand brushed her abdomen. "Is it-?"

"No, Jaime," she breathed, unable to stomach the relief in his eyes. "There was an attack."

Her husband was quiet as she recounted the words in the letter, but every change in his disposition screamed at her. He paled, his hand curled into a white-knuckled fist, his breathing became shallow and rapid, he was swaying on his feet. When she finished, he was no longer looking at her. His green eyes had grown dark and distant.

She placed a hand gently on his cheek, turning him back. "Jaime."

"I have to find her," he huffed, removing her hand and storming away. "I'll take half the fleet and comb the entire bloody sea if I have to."

"You cannot do that, Jaime," Myra called after him, hiking up her skirts to match his pace.

"You said it yourself, she and Arys are only missing. She is out there and I will find her."

"Jaime Lannister, stop!"

"Do not ask me to do that!" Jaime shouted, though he halted in place. He regarded her with tear-filled eyes. "Don't ask me to give up on her."

Myra rushed forward, holding his face gently. He half-heartedly attempted to pull away, but she knew she had him.

"You won't find her, Jaime," Myra sobbed. Her thumbs wiped at the tears streaking down his cheeks. "Myrcella is gone."

"No," he murmured, shaking his head in her grasp. "No, no, no, I can't. I can't, Myra."

"I know, Jaime. I know."

He held out for a moment longer, taking a deep breath that sounded like drowning, before dropping his head to her shoulder. She held him as he cried, and as he screamed. As he tore the back of her dress from gripping too tightly, and as he brought them to the floor when he collapsed. And it was there that they remained.

. . .

Arianne

Father, do not leave me this way.

Father, what must I do?

Father, I am not ready.

She sat at the foot of the bed where they had laid Prince Doran to rest until his return to Sunspear. It was an inelegant thing, a servant's quarters for anything finer had been sacked and set ablaze. The Silent Sisters had cleaned him as best they could, and dressed him in garb suited for a man of his station, but the colors were dulled in her eyes, their finery cheapened. What beauty was there to be found in a world that took him from her?

The Water Gardens still smoldered, and the breeze carried with it the stench of blood oranges and burned bodies. Every pool was red in the sun, every fountain choked by the blood. The flowers and the plants were shriveled and rotting, the birds silent in death or absence. It was a sanctuary violated, gasping its final breaths.

"Princess," a voice gently called behind her. It should have been the squeaking tone of Maester Caleotte, but they had tossed him naked into a fountain, three spears piercing his belly. Instead, it was Maester Myles, who had ridden beside her when word first came to Sunspear. "We must move him now."

Arianne took a breath, resting her forehead gently on the footboard of the bed, her mantra of unanswered questions to her father continuing to drone through her thoughts. They had carried her through the evening and into the depths of night, and roused her now from her reverie as dawn broke across the horizon. She was not even certain if she could stand.

"Are the litters ready?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"They are, Princess."

She could have told him to leave then. He would have obeyed, and she could remain alone with her father. Why should the others have him? They did not know him as she did. They did not run to him in the dead of night when their fears became overwhelming. They did not play cyvasse with him until they fell asleep upon the board. They did not know the difference between his political smiles and his genuine joy. Why must her final moments with him be shared with everyone?

But Arianne did not tell the maester to leave. She was a princess of Dorne, and to throw a childish tantrum was unbecoming. The throne was hers now, and she would not tarnish her father's legacy by refusing to let him go.

When she stood at last, her knees buckled from the strain. Myles rushed to her side, but she waved him off, holding onto the footboard as her legs steadied.

She had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out when she saw her father again, how his cheeks had sunken and grown sallow. They had dressed him in golden silks and light leathers inlaid with jade. Their bright colors served as a mockery to his pale death.

With a stiff nod, Arianne allowed the guards to enter. They carried her father out of the room on a stretcher with a quiet bearing, their steps careful and respectful. She trailed them, eyes watching the top of her father's head for she could not bear to look again at what had become of her childhood refuge.

Two hundred soldiers awaited them, still as statues, their helms removed as they bowed their heads. They crowded around two other litters, those bearing Ellaria Sand and Areo Hotah. Though the other victims would be borne to Sunspear in time, she could not bear the idea of leaving her father's protector behind. Her old friend had been by his side all these years, to include dying beside him. She would not do him the dishonor of separating them now.

Gently, her father's body was placed in his litter. It was open to the elements, save for silken curtains that billowed in the breeze. What flowers had survived the attack were picked and placed around her father's body, to honor him as much as hide his stench. When his hand dropped from its resting place, Arianne quickly moved forward to grab it, placing it gently at his side once more, kissing his cold fingers in the process.

Father, do not leave me this way.

When Myles brought her horse, Arianne shook her head. "I will return to Sunspear on foot."

She thought he would object to the idea, but the maester surprised her by bowing quietly and stepping away. The soldiers opened a path for her, leading to the stone and sand that made up the coastal path between Sunspear and the Water Gardens. How many times she had ridden along it, ever impatient to simply be at her destination. Now, three leagues did not feel long enough.

The sun had just crawled over the horizon when they set out for Sunspear. A haze hung in the sky, casting an orange glow about them. A hard wind whipped across the barren landscape, bringing with it the scent of brine. It tugged at her silks and tore at her braid, but her path was a straight one, unaltered by the violence of nature.

Arianne led the procession in silence, her hands bound into fists at her side, her eyes never leaving the horizon. No man spoke behind her, and against the din of the wind, she may as well have been alone, save for the pounding of a lone drum meant to keep their rhythm and announce their arrival. It reverberated in her chest, became her very heartbeat, keeping her upright as the sun crossed overhead.

It was mid-morning when Sunspear ceased being a speck on the horizon, forming into the familiar shape of her home. The Spear Tower jutted into the sky, defiant, while the Tower of the Sun rested lower, glowing in the afternoon light. The Winding Walls wrapped about it all, enveloping its people in safety. Yet for all their home's strength, it could not save its prince.

Her father had not seen this sight in two years. Had the sun not dried her tears, she would have wept.

The wails of the city caught her attention. All of Sunspear mourned, their cries at first a quiet din on the horizon, which turned into individual screams and shouts as they drew closer. Some called her father's name, others Ellaria; some invoked the memory of Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon. Most were wordless, a language of pain known to all peoples.

The Threefold Gate was open, allowing them to pass through directly to the keep, but all along the path in Shadow City, the people had gathered, dressed in dark silks and leathers. In the doorways of hovels, black linen fluttered in the breeze.

Her people reached out to her, and she did not stop them.

Some hands carried the softest of touches and others poured precious water onto her skin, cooling her overheated body. None reached out in disrespect; no guard need interfere. They called her name and wept before her; they threw palms and flowers onto the path. One small child took her hand and she allowed him to walk by her side through the lower levels.

A dirge began to rise from the crowd, in the old Rhoynish language. Once it was used to mourn the loss of their home in the East. Now, it was for the loss of their prince. Even those who did not know the old ways began to sing, and as one the people of Dorne mourned.

Arianne allowed the litters to enter the keep first, stepping aside so that they may pass. An elderly woman, toothless and sun-kissed until her skin had turned to leather, approached her, rubbing an oil from a clay pot along her exposed skin, alleviating the heat and pain she felt. She thought to thank the woman, but the words would not come.

When at last she entered the keep, Arianne stood in the doorway and watched her people. They clammored to the edge of the steps but did not enter. They simply continued to sing until the doors were shut.

Arianne collapsed immediately.

Hands were all over her, helping her up, dragging her away to a sofa where she might relax. Someone removed her boots while another forced a goblet of water to her mouth. She drank greedily and deep, nearly choking on the liquid. There were shouts and orders and a hand gently patting her cheek, but Arianne slipped into darkness regardless.

. . .

When she came to, Arianne was in her room. The light of the setting sun poured through the windows, casting a reddening glow across the sandstone, and reflecting an array of patterns off the colored glass that hung from the ceiling. The cheeriness of it all sickened her.

Trystane was seated beside her, holding her hand tightly, his head bowed. She could feel his tears falling onto her wrist. His hands were bandaged, burned from the fires as he attempted to get to their father. A surviving guard had dragged him away and saved his life.

Obara stood beside the bed, her spear in hand, appearing a much shorter, angrier Areo to her. Her cousin was covered with simple cuts and bruises, nothing that would slow her down. Ellaria had tasked her with protecting the children, and in doing so had saved all their lives.

"That was foolish of you," Obara remarked, noticing her gaze. Trystane jumped at the noise.

"It was necessary," she replied, allowing her little brother to help her sit up. He gave her a waterskin to drink. The cold of the liquid burned as much as the sun had.

"That does not make it any less foolish."

She even sounded like Areo. It made her ill.

Trystane fidgeted beside her. "I should have been with you."

"You were needed here," Arianne replied, rubbing her hand across his back.

"So I might fail him again, is that it?"

Her brother sobbed and fell quiet. Arianne felt a pang of regret bloom in her chest. She had been there for their father since the attack, and had not allowed him to return. He was wounded and mourning, and she did not wish to hear him while she suffered through her own pain. It was selfishness that kept him locked away in Sunspear. He deserved better from his sister.

"Has there been any word?" she asked quietly, taking in the sight of her tinged skin. Myles would likely confine her to the room for the remainder of the week, lathering her in salves and oils. It would drive her mad.

Obara frowned, and might have spit were they anywhere else. "There is no sign of the knight or the princess. I do not believe we will see them again unless our attackers wish us to, and I expect very little from the Lannisters."

Trystane looked up. "You still believe it to be them?"

"Do you not? Nym's letters are filled with Cersei's raving. She accuses us of conspiring to kill her son so that we might raise you to the throne. Why else should Myrcella have been taken? That little chair means everything to them."

"Tywin Lannister just restored peace to the realm. Why would he start another war?"

"Tywin Lannister does as he pleases," Obara hissed, throwing her spear onto the floor. The blood of their attackers still stained it. "This is not the first time he has slaughtered our people, and it will not be the last if we let this go unpunished."

Arianne watched her brother open and close his mouth, his brows furrowed, unsure. "What is it, Trystane?"

Her brother shrugged, and then stood. "It is the obvious answer, and that is why it cannot be the right one. The entire realm knows there is enmity between our houses. Why not take advantage of that?"

"And what would you suggest?"

Trystane bit his lip. "I think we should be patient and search for answers."

Now Obara kicked the spear and stalked over to the window. "Listen to them!"

It was not hard to hear the mourners, even from so high above. Their cries of agony and despair drifted up through the floors and their notes carried across the air. They would carry on throughout the night and well through the next day.

"Their sorrow will turn to rage, and they will cry for blood. Lannister blood. And if you do not join them, then they will destroy you on their way to war."

Arianne frowned, looking back to her hands, refusing to meet the gazes of the others. How powerful she had felt when her father had lived. He would mull over decisions for days and she would accuse him of taking too long, of not being the ruler he had once been. Only now did she see the true wisdom in his silence and patience.

Father, what must I do?

She stood then, unsteady but stronger, her heart resolved though she took no joy or pride in it.

"You must swear that you will stand by my side, no matter the decision. We move forward together, or we fall."

Obara took a knee. "I pledge myself to you as I did your father. You have my spear, now and always."

"You are my sister," Trystane spoke, dropping to the floor. "You are wiser and stronger than all of us. I will follow you anywhere."

She took their hands as they stood. "Then come with me. There is much to be done."

Were she in agony, she did not feel it. Her sorrow had dried up, replaced with a determination, and underneath it a fear like none other. Arianne strode the corridors of her home, gathering the attention of all within. Servants, guards, and nobles watched with wide, curious eyes. None approached, none spoke, but all knew what she was about to do.

Only Maester Myles came to her side when he saw her, but he, too, did not speak. He was only there to listen.

"Call the banners," she ordered. "Block the Boneway and the Prince's Pass. And send our fastest ship to Meereen."

Fire and blood was what her father wished for, and only through fire and blood would they now be saved.

Arianne only paused briefly at the outer doors to the keep. She stared at the mahogany, memorized the lines and imperfections in the wood. Beyond this boundary, everything changed; beyond this, Dorne was hers to command.

She threw the doors open herself, striding back into the city. The people continued to cry and shout, though those closest to her watched in silent expectation. This time, she did not stand alone. Guards drew up on either side of her, and she could feel her brother and cousin at her back.

"Dorne, listen to me now!" she shouted, and though only the first few rows of spectators could hear, they quickly silenced those behind them, until quiet began to cascade through the street. "For too long, we have been asked to suffer! For too long, we have been told to keep the peace when our people die! The Crown cares not for Dorne! Westeros cares not for Dorne! So it is time that we remind them that we are the ones who could never be conquered!"

Arianne looked at the eyes of the strangers before her, the people who she would now lead. They shined in the growing darkness, filled with rage and pride and eagerness. It excited her. It worried her.

"We go to war!"

"WAR!" they began to chant. "WAR!"

"DORAN!"

"ARIANNE!"

"WAR! WAR! WAR!"

The old woman from before regarded her, and then she knelt. A man joined her in the dirt. Another woman. Three more men. Children. Soldiers. Merchants. The entire city knelt before their princess, chanting as one, calling for the vengeance they had long been denied. And Arianne watched them, proud and afraid, uncertain of what she had truly just begun.

Father, I am not ready.